


seasonal

by kalachuchi



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band), 偶像练习生 | Idol Producer (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gen, Unresolved Emotional Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-09
Updated: 2019-05-09
Packaged: 2020-02-27 04:02:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18731230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalachuchi/pseuds/kalachuchi
Summary: “Junhui,” Mingming says. “Why are you calling me.”Junhui is smiling over the line, Mingming decides, mostly because he can’t imagine Junhui doing anything else.“Maybe I just missed you.”From the rearview of Mingming's memory: moments they almost were.





	seasonal

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by without - years & years ("You're enough, in love without me / So close your heart, you'll never find me").

 

We set down what we cannot bear to remember.

– Anne Michaels,  _To Write_ (All We Saw)

 

 

**2016 (1)**

 

“Ah,” Junhui’s voice cuts through the static, “is it just my number your phone finds invisible?”

Holding his phone away from his face, Mingming doesn’t immediately answer. _Xu Minghao,_ his phone screen reads. Mingming places the phone back against his ear, where Junhui’s voice is humming over the line, a self-imposed soundtrack for music on hold. The melody sounds almost recognisable, like the hook of a song Mingming should know but doesn’t. Mingming thinks of the jingle from an ad he heard years ago, whistling broadcasted from radio stations across Seoul before he remembers, belatedly, that Junhui can’t whistle. 

Mingming tries to imagine Xu Minghao waiting patiently on the phone for Mingming to acknowledge him. Actually, Mingming can’t imagine Xu Minghao calling him at all, and it’s this which led Mingming to answering who he assumed was Minghao. He no longer entertains the daydream where Junhui calls.

On the phone like this, there’s no way for Junhui to know if Mingming closes his eyes. 

Mingming doesn’t close his eyes.

“Junhui,” he says instead. “It’s been a long time.”

“Has it? I guess it feels like a long time. Minghao talks to me about you, you know.”

Mingming didn’t know. Junhui sounds light, cheerful, though he’s always been that way – every other word like air, difficult to grasp. Mingming once knew how to precisely pick apart Junhui’s mannerisms and motivations, find the needle’s eye of what Junhui wants between the spaces of what Junhui says. But Mingming doesn’t know a lot of things.

Mingming says, “Didn’t know there was so much to say.”

“There is always something to be said,” Junhui replies, words familiar yet strange, as if recited from someone else, “for a person who listens.”

“Sounds like grandpa wisdom to me.”

“Right? I thought so too,” Junhui agrees.

“Junhui,” Mingming sighs. “Why are you calling me?”

 

 

**2017**

 

Mingming runs into Junhui near Konkuk University. He hears him before he sees him, actually, girls two tables down peering into screens together over mufflers and half-empty soup bowls, ceramic and glass knocking against limited counter space, _clink, clink, clink._

Cold wind signals the opening doors, a chill Mingming feels before anything else, speakers teasing the restaurant’s familiarity with them or the group’s popularity or both on repeat, _clap, clap, clap._

“Ah, Minghao’s infamous favourite,” Junhui declares. “It’s warm here! I like it.”

Rustling fabric. Mingming doesn’t turn around.

“I like it here too,” Minghao answers, amused. His voice hits lower than Mingming remembers, brighter but strangely unrecognisable. Memory is a fickle friend, after all, sticking Junhui’s voice on a shelf in his mind for safekeeping but not the colour of his hair, his habit of stomping his way in everywhere–

“No, let’s get a table, your back won’t like the seats at the counter… Really, I can wait, I think. It will be very difficult but I can do this for _you.”_

“…So I’m unwell enough we wait for a table but well enough to pull your chair for you still. You’re really something else.”

Laughter, striking. Then: “Yes yes, what a gentleman little brother you are. So mannerful! So grown up! The neighbourhood aunties will love you forever.” 

Memory is a fickle friend, Junhui’s voice recognisable like dusting off a book Mingming once read but forgot the ending off, Junhui’s laugh a song he played and replayed and eventually couldn’t listen to anymore.

“That’s not even a word. _Mannerful,_ really.”

“Maybe – but you had to think about it, didn’t you?”

Someone jolts his seat from behind, hushed chattering following in its wake. _Shh, they’ll hear you! Well, maybe I want them to! What, no way…_

Too abruptly Mingming stands up, says, “This table’s empty now. You don’t need to keep standing.”

It was a slow run when he’d walked in himself, forty minutes prior to beat the evening rush for dinner. The last booth with cushioned seats, generous enough to seat three with some manoeuvring, every other table relegated to wooden backs by the window. On his way out he thinks he sees someone turning, blond distinct amidst the crowd.

So it’s not running away if it’s Mingming that was run into, a collision as unavoidable as it was unnoticed, and it’s not running away if Mingming has somewhere else to be running _to,_ instead.

Wind lashes at him outside and Mingming flinches, speeding up as he tries to adjust from the heat of the restaurant, comfortable enough to stifle.

 

 

**2019 (1)**

 

In the dressing room, hours after the day’s filming finished, the cameras are covered. Kept out of sight, consolation prize to their presence lingering in the mind like an extra limb, a ghostly touch.

Also in the dressing room: Xu Minghao, back to the door and face unreadable through the reflection of the mirror. He could have been anyone, really – Mingming himself only here to grab a spare set of earphones – but the casual dress gives him away. 

Mingming tugs at the hem of his own sweatshirt, doesn’t look down to catch its colour. 

“Teacher,” Mingming begins, clearing his throat. 

Minghao’s shoulders stiffen, uncomfortable but visible proof Mingming’s been heard.

“We’re the same age,” Minghao says. 

Mingming thinks but doesn’t say, _No, I was here first._ And because he doesn’t say it, Minghao doesn’t look up, still doesn’t turn around. And somehow this, the sight of Minghao’s back but not his face rankles inside Mingming, a feeling misdirected and without name or anywhere to go or return to but Mingming. 

Minghao’s face unreadable and Minghao’s back tense, wide open – what is Mingming supposed to do about that? The distance between them barely 3 metres but farther than Mingming knows how to bridge, how to find permission to cross. 

Like this, a line draws between Minghao, standing in the place he was offered, and Mingming, standing in a position he has always had to work for.

For lack of anything else to say, Mingming says instead, “Supporting us even this late? Even the cameras are resting.” 

Another thing Mingming thinks but doesn’t say: _You don’t need to be here this late. Nobody asked it of you, nobody’s keeping you–_

“I’ve received a lot of support until now,” Minghao interjects. “I’m very thankful.”

In Mingming’s chest, a feeling simmers, smokes and drifts away.

 

 

**2013 (1)**

 

“You know, I think I dreamed of you the other night.”

“You’re not even sure it was me?” Junhui teasing even as he beams. “I need to work on my impression on people.”

Mingming snorts. “No, I’m pretty sure it’s just your–.” 

He pauses. Glances at the mirrored wall behind Junhui, eyes the way Junhui’s hair curls all the way to his shoulders, now. Junhui, whining about its time-consuming maintenance ringing at the back of his own mind even as his fingers grew deft at braids with the strength of routine.

“My what? My face, voice, dashing good figure…?”

“No, just you,” Mingming answers in the end. “I don’t really remember anything else, just you. Honestly, there’s not even anything else to tell.”

Honest, entirely too honest. Junhui grins, because he can tell.

Mingming sighs. Rolls his eyes. 

And, when Junhui isn’t looking anymore, grins back.

 

 

**2016 (2)**

 

Junhui is smiling over the line, Mingming decides, mostly because he can’t imagine Junhui doing anything else. 

“Maybe I just missed you.”

Somewhere in Mingming’s phone remains the WeChat he’d started with Junhui, cultivated for years to be left untouched for almost as long. If friendship was the pavement connecting the puzzle pieces of Mingming’s life in Korea, debut was the ladder dangling over his head, an entire city visible from the skylights so long as Mingming didn’t let go. 

“Everyone’s missing something,” Mingming quips, knee-jerk. “Life is a constant struggle for improvement.”

_“That_ sounds like something I’ve heard before. But the version I’ve always known said it was a journey instead…”

Mingming doesn’t know many things, but Mingming still remembers everything he once told Junhui. He doesn’t think this is one of them.

“Does it really make so big a difference, either way?” 

Junhui dodges, fast enough to grate, scraping at Mingming’s composure on its way out. 

“A little bird was singing how you’re going to debut soon! Oh, the bird isn't Minghao this time, though – so don’t tell him I told you so.”

To debut was the promise kept by nobody but Mingming himself, and Mingming’s held on long enough he might be alright with that. When it comes down to it he’s always heard his own voice louder than anyone else’s, as if it was the only way to be heard at all.

It was, for a very long time, the only thing Mingming allowed himself to hear.

“Yeah,” Mingming says, before he can think better of it. “We’ll see.”

To succeed is to overcome, and Mingming has never been very good at backing down.

 

 

**2018**

 

_Who else is coming,_ Mingming texts back, _How many friends do you even know to invite._

The response is swift, and accompanied by an overly upset looking cat: _Mean ha ha ha just the usual […]_

Mingming is one sock and his shoes away from being ready when he swipes the screen to read the full message.

_[…] oh Jun is back too I think he can probably make karaoke after dinner? If you want._

Mingming swipes call and, at the beep signalling the call picked up, says, “Hey, how many times do I have to tell you, I’m not staying out late anymore, not when…”

_Not when–_

“Not when filming,” is the interjection, laughing. “You mean you’ve stolen the studio keys again to practice, I get it. I’ll cover for you, workaholic.”

Work. Yes, that seems better, believable.

“I’ll beat you at karaoke under the light of day,” Mingming agrees. 

_Not before, not when I still haven’t stood in front of him._

_Not if I can’t see him without needing to look up._

_Not after–_

 

 

**2019 (2)**

 

Mingming says, “To give back the support you received when you needed it to those who need it now. I’ve always imagined it a privilege, for people like us.”

Turning around, Minghao grins, faint. _“People like us._ To the person giving or receiving?”

“When I stand where you stand,” Mingming, even now, refuses to say _if_ , “I’ll let you know.”

“Ha,” Minghao exhales, sharp. 

Mingming wouldn’t label it a laugh, though it’s what he assumes Minghao meant–

“You wouldn’t let him help you, then. How was he ever going to ask anything of you in return?”

– Or perhaps Mingming never grasped what Minghao meant to begin with. 

Still facing him, it’s Mingming who glances away from Minghao now. 

He wonders if this is how it happened then, too: Xu Minghao no longer the standoffish, proud kid Mingming first assumed him to be, shifting with a turn of the head into someone steady, reliable. The sort of person loudspeakers could declare _Main dancer of a popular foreign group, a dependable dance trainer…_

“And what was I supposed to say? 'Forgive me, I never meant to place connections over competition?’ ”

…Maybe even just the sort of person someone wouldn’t need to ricochet against to feel free, to find breathing room in. The sort of person that, over a matter of years, could grow into someone Junhui would feel able to return to, to reassure himself there was somewhere, _someone_ , welcoming the return.

Then: a small sound, startled yet muffled by the weight of the room, somehow sad.

“Forgiveness is something given, too. You,” Minghao swallows the end of what he was beginning to say. “No, you– It’s not your fault–no. It’s not your problem. I realise that now. I don’t think I should have kept you. Not for this.”

Mingming muses, “I guess I’ll see you in practice tomorrow, then.”

When the cameras roll again tomorrow, Minghao will be fair, impartial. Of course he will, Mingming can see it already, _has_ seen it already. But away from the cameras, in front of Mingming, Minghao’s wide open: a brother, a lover, a thousand windows into himself he will not, cannot, show anyone else.

Without looking at himself, all Mingming can think is, _How could he be anything else?_

Because there are certain things Minghao will not disclose to Mingming, in a similar way Mingming supposes there are certain things Minghao will not evert tell Junhui. Mingming knows this with the certainty of a path he himself once walked, the foundations of a forgotten road set in the shape of his own footsteps, left in the shape of calls left unanswered.

“Everyone has their pride,” Mingming admits. But the admission feels flat, without the relief of a confession, a sympathetic ear.

“Everyone should have something to hold on to,” Minghao agrees.

And in the end, maybe that was what separated them, Minghao and Mingming, above and beyond all the rest: positions too similar to be differed by anything else but the willingness to see things through, the patience to try and understand.

 

 

**2013 (2)**

 

Junhui has stacked Minghao’s pancake with close to three times the amount of meat to be remotely close to easily consumable.

“Um,” Minghao starts. Doesn’t continue.

“Junhui, oi,” Mingming pokes at Junhui across the table, “what are you doing, scaring off fresh meat with meat?”

Primly, Junhui huffs, “Minghao is not fresh meat. Minghao is Minghao.”

“I’m right here,” Minghao interrupts.

“Sure you are,” Mingming allows. 

“Meat,” Junhui chirps.

Mingming warns, “I’m not paying,” even as in his head he’s calculating the costs of their order, kicking at Minghao underneath the table every time Minghao so much as drops his hand to the pocket he keeps his wallet in.

It’s Junhui who reacts, though.

“Ouch,” Junhui announces, not sounding very pained at all.

Minghao frowns. “Junhui…hyung?”

But Junhui is looking past Minghao, watching Mingming, seeing right through him. That’s how Mingming feels, anyhow. He can’t recall when he started to notice that. 

Only when it started to itch, a calculation Mingming couldn’t balance positively.

Next to him, Minghao has managed to balance the overfull pancake into his mouth after all. Mingming doesn’t think he’d have bothered – they’re going to have too much pancake left at the end, at this rate. But Mingming focuses on his own plate, and lets it be. 

Across the table, Junhui downs an entire glass of water at once. Only when Junhui reaches for the pitcher to refill everyone’s glasses does he realise Junhui’s was the only cup not half-empty.

 

 

**2016 (3)**

 

From Junhui’s side, someone is calling Jun’s name: _Hyung? Jun-hyung – oh, sorry, I’ll just –_

“It’s alright,” Junhui’s voice, clear but far away. “I’m heading back in a minute, Channie.”

Mingming hadn’t even noticed Junhui slipping back to Korean, hadn’t even realised they’d both been speaking in Korean the entire time. There was a time, once, when only Mingming could pry anything out of Junhui regardless of language –

Mingming cuts in. “You’re busy right now.”

“So are you, “ Junhui follows easily. Then he says, “And so is Minghao’s phone.”

“Why,” Mingming stops, considers, tries again. “Where is he?”

“Using up international minutes on my phone, I suppose.”

“Wait, seriously?”

“Of course not,” Junhui laughs. Mingming is almost sure sure he’s smiling now, certain enough to bet on it. “But you’re right. We’re all keeping busy these days.”

This, at least, is certain. “Yes.”

“So! Be well, stay healthy, work hard…” Junhui continues, unending cheer. 

Static shivers into the call across the line. White noise, flickering distance.

“Yes, mother,” Mingming sighs.

“You’d better not ignore your mother like me!” Junhui warns, voice lilting upward, singsong and breezy. The breeze halts. 

Junhui remains, grounded and far away, out of reach. “Really, Mingming. I haven’t changed my number in years.”

“I know,” Mingming says, because he does.

 

  
****

**2014 (–)**

 

Monthly evaluation leaves Mingming on his knees, breathless but not nearly exhausted enough to be overwhelmed. Junhui’s hand stretches out in front of him, accompanied by his voice, Mandarin almost suffocating in its familiarity:

“I saved the practice room at the end for the evening. It’s empty, if you want it.”

Mingming does want it. But in this moment the desire to improve, to overcome, pulls up only barely ahead of the desire to hold on, to let Junhui pull him up and in: Junhui, balm for the dam still yet to break; Junhui, comfort almost too much to bear, a blade over Mingming’s heart with the intensity if not the urgency of the word debut, a looming dream, an impending future–

Junhui’s hand still waits before him. 

Mingming doesn’t take it.

So he stands up on his own effort, gripped not by anyone else but by the burden of having something to prove, lighter but less difficult to ignore than the growing fear of beginning something he can’t take back, something he wouldn’t know how to atone for.

“Keep it,” he tells Junhui, “you saved it for yourself, right? So you should keep it.”

Mingming reaches.   


And he lifts his own hand, means to– to do _something_ , ruffle Junhui’s hair or headlock him back for two afternoons ago or maybe even take back the hand Mingming knows would still be open for him–

The door opens.

Junhui’s eyes on his back, watching.

The door closes.

Mingming keeps walking.


End file.
